The Mark On The Wall
by RachelPhobia
Summary: Sentiment is not a characteristic that Vulcans have a predisposition for. Spock, however, is half human.


Spock was fond of their routine together; Jim knew this, though he also knew that Spock would never admit it. Everything around their social communications was scheduled to an almost compulsive degree, and over the years Jim had noticed Spock's distinct displeasure at having their interactions interrupted. If he didn't know any better, he'd have said that Spock _enjoyed_ his company, their time together was so frequent.

Jim had once asked Spock why he liked to have their meetings so rigidly organized, and Spock had replied with, "to maximize the amount of leisure time with which we can spend in each other's company". Jim had simply smirked at him, and Spock had arched his perfect eyebrow at him before promptly kicking his ass at chess.

They played chess together on Monday's, Wednesday's, Thursday's and Sunday's at 1900 hours. Spock liked to tell people that he was most often the victor of their games because of his greater grasp on the discipline of Logic, when it was actually the truth that Jim won more games than he lost. Jim didn't have the heart to tell anyone that it was his intuition that quite frequently triumphed over his First Officers Logical moves, and left the half Vulcan staring at the board in bewilderment and quiet irritation, that small, adorable crinkle on the bridge of his nose that Jim loved so, appearing with his frown.

On Saturday's at 0900 hours they met up in the recreation rooms with McCoy, Scotty, Chekov, Sulu, and on occasion, Uhura. Usually they sat and had a quiet coffee with each other. Sometimes they sparred, or had weightlifting competitions – which, much to the surprise, and then ultimate adoration of the menfolk, Uhura usually won. Sometimes they tried their hand at old Earth board games, and with far too little knowledge on how to actually play, the game usually ended with the lot of them just making up their own rules and laughing at each other like children left home alone for the weekend.

On Wednesday's and Friday's at 1300 hours they had lunch, and on Tuesday's at 2100 hours they had dinner. They had their lunches in the mess hall whenever possible, and usually discussed mission reports and ships logs. Their diners together were always of a more personal nature, with topics much closer to home often coming into the conversation.

At first they had taken it in turns to host and prepare the dinners, however, an unfortunate accident involving fire and pillows had revealed Jim's horrendous cooking capabilities, and Spock insisted that from thereon out he hosted the dinners.

Jim had no complaints about this, because more than the anything he loved spending time with Spock over these meals, which Jim knew the half Vulcan went to a lot of trouble to make, often going out of his way to obtain food he was sure his captain would really enjoy.

It was one such Tuesday night – fork in hand and the aroma of baked potatoes wafting through the air – about ten minutes into their regular meal, when Spock looked up from his plate, fork half raised to his mouth. The half Vulcan paused, and stared across the table at Jim intensely.

"Jim?"

"Yes, Spock?"

"I am...quite..._fond_ of our regular meals together."

Jim was sure the surprise was plainly evident on his face despite his attempt to disguise it. Spock never showed emotions unprompted like this, and Jim did it so rarely himself, that these spontaneous words of affection were quite the shock. It was an unspoken truth between them that they meant more to each other than anything else in the universe, and they each knew they they didn't ever have to say it out loud for the other to understand, because their actions spoke more truth than any of their words ever could.

He was sure that they had never been so straightforward with each other, because they'd never needed to be, and Jim felt the intense need to lighten the situation with humor over powering any similarly affectionate remark he could have made.

"Wow, Spock, that's a big confession for you. Anything else you need to get off your chest?"

Spock's head tilted to the side and he stared hard at Jim for the longest moment, eyes narrowed in what could almost be called confusion. Jim smirked, bringing another fork full of potatoes up to his mouth, falsely believing that Spock could not possibly have anything to say to that.

"I believe I am in love with you."

Jim's fork hit the wall as it flicked from his hand in undiluted shock, scraping a gouge through the plated metal of the ships wall, and dropping to the floor with a clatter.

Many years later, and the wall in Spock's still hasn't been fixed. The half Vulcan's preference for neat, fully functional surroundings gives Jim the impression that perhaps his First Officer hasn't fixed up the scrape on purpose, rather than an inability to do so due to nonchalance or business.

It's one of the first things he sees when he comes into Spock's quarters for the night, and Jim often runs his fingers over the mark – _their_ mark on the wall – a spot that has almost become sentimental, and reminisces over the tender memory of the first time Spock had declared his love for him.

Jim sometimes thinks to himself, maybe – just maybe – Spock hasn't left the gouge there because he hasn't gotten around to fixing it.

Maybe, just maybe, he's _fond_ of it.


End file.
